


Settling Down

by themarkerfairy



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: M/M, explicit only in the last chapter, if you like sinbad having feelings then this is dedicated to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarkerfairy/pseuds/themarkerfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinbad realizes his definition of “home” seems to include Ja’far’s shoes next to his own at the foot of a bed.  He spends the next decade pining for home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twenty-one

**Author's Note:**

> A friend and I were bemoaning the fact that Ja'far is always the one left pining hopelessly in fanon, and that role really doesn't suit him. So I decided to fix that myself. 
> 
> The explicit warning is only for the last chapter, until then it is purely PG, as long as suggestion and mild profanity doesn't bother you. 
> 
> Also mad props to tumblr user zzzepar for saving my ass with her mad editing skills. 
> 
> I haven't written creatively since middle school, but plan to do more, so if you've got suggestions and criticisms, lay it on me.

Sinbad is twenty-one years old and lying flat on his back in the dirt, feeling at least twice that age.  Despite veins still thrumming with adrenaline, the conquering of his sixth dungeon has left him bruised, bleeding, and aching all over; and he feels it acutely.  Normally, this is the point where he would jump up, crow in triumph, and go hauling all of his hard-won treasure to the nearest town to find the busiest bar and the prettiest girl (or two) for the night.  

This time, however, he realizes that even  _ his  _ seemingly limitless magoi might be reaching its limit.  

A sad thought, that; he does love the rush, the glory, and the adulation of his constant conquests and adventures; but perhaps it is time for him to settle down, if only just a bit.  

Sinbad shakes that thought off as quickly as it comes ( _ Him? Settle down? _ ), and coughs as he hauls himself up onto one elbow -- the one that doesn’t hurt.  He tips his head back to get a better view of the night sky and the terrain behind him, and hears his neck pop and crack.  

“Ja’far?” he calls, voice a bit more raspy than he would like.  

A figure jolts up from the ground a few dozen feet away and comes swiftly striding towards him on nearly silent footsteps.  There are no words from Ja’far as he approaches, only quick, precise movements -- no energy wasted, no effort spared -- as he crouches over to Sinbad.  

Sinbad looks up at his closest friend and sees a side of him that he is not often privy to, silhouetted by moonlight.  Ja’far’s eyes are slit, his head shifting rapidly back and forth to survey the surrounding area for threats, tufts of white hair in disarray, shirt hanging off of him in tatters, knives clenched tightly in his hands, dripping blood that clots in the sand below them.  His body nearly shakes with the tension it holds, but it doesn’t; too many years of hiding silently in shadows while keeping his muscles still.  The whole picture is ethereally lit and washed out black and white; and Ja’far looks like some sort of avenging spirit.

_ Beautiful _ , Sinbad thinks, before quickly shaking that thought off, too.  

“Ja’far, you’re not hurt, are you?” He asks softly, not wanting to startle him in this particular state.  

Ja’far’s eyes jerk straight to look into Sinbad’s own, pupils dilating as all the tension melts from his frame and he drops to his knees beside Sinbad, hands coming up to flutter and fuss over his leader’s various injuries.  

“Sin!  I’m sorry, were you asking something from me?  Are you ok?  You need to start being more careful, I really thought you were going to lose your--”

“I’m fine, Ja’far,” Sinbad interrupts his rambling, trying to conceal a laugh and only wincing when it causes a bruised (possibly cracked) rib to twinge.  

Jafar frowns at him reproachfully.  “You don’t look ‘fine’ to me, Sin.  Can you sit up?  I’m sure Drakon saw the tower collapse.  He should be here soon with assistance, but it’s probably not great for company morale to see their fearless leader lying prostrate in the sand.”  

Sinbad smiles and tries to slap Ja’far’s hands off of him.  He’s making a show of just fussing mindlessly, but Sinbad knows he is probably cataloguing every injury on his body, assessing who the best person to heal each one will be.  Ja’far has always done a bad job of concealing how much he cares.  Sinbad tries to plant both of his hands on the ground underneath him to sit up, but his right arm collapses under the pressure and he crumples back to the ground.

“Owww….”  He whines from where his face is half-pressed into the dirt.  

Ja’far sighs, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like “‘fine’, my ass,” and shuffles behind Sinbad’s head to lift him gently into a seated position against the nearest rock, leaving Sinbad to wonder exactly when tiny Ja’far got strong enough to drag his dead weight without effort.  

“Dislocated shoulder,” Ja’far announces, before plopping himself between Sinbad’s legs.  He leans in close, and Sinbad has to fight down an unsolicited blush as Ja’far grabs his arm and places his other hand against Sinbad’s chest.  Before he can contemplate the fact that he is  _ blushing  _ in front of  _ Ja’far _ , the object of this thoughts is speaking again.  

“Alright, I can fix this one.  Deep breath in, I’m going to set it on the count of three.”  Sinbad gets ready to brace himself for the pain.  “One, two--”

“Agck!  Ja’far, you said on three!”  Sinbad protests, shaking out his arm.  “Oh, that does feel better, though.  Thanks.”  

Ja’far grabs his arm and holds it still, pushing himself further into Sinbad’s lap as he does so.  “Well if I did it on three, you would have tensed up and made it worse.  You’re welcome.  Just stop waving it about or it’ll dislocate again.”  

Sinbad stares at the pale hand gripping his forearm, and finds himself averting his eyes from Ja’far’s face and to the ground for a reason he doesn’t quite understand, shifting uncomfortably under his slight weight.  

Ja’far, of course, notices this immediately.  “Sin, are you alright?  Are you hiding another injury?  All I found were bruises and shallow cuts, though the one on your chest might need stitches.”  He hops off of Sinbad’s thighs to look for the injury causing his friend to act so strangely, when Sinbad holds up a hand.

“No, nope.  I’m good.  Just… feeling my age,” he laughs.  “Are  _ you _ ok, Ja’far?  You’re covered in blood.”  

Ja’far snorts and sits gracefully to Sinbad’s left, heaving a sigh and leaning against the rough stone at his back.  “You’re barely twenty, Sin.  Stop worrying about your age.  Vanity will be your downfall.”  He eyes his own hands.  “And yes, I’m unhurt.  Not my blood.”  

“Twenty-one, Ja’far! Twenty-one!” Sinbad flops dramatically back against the rock, waving his arms yet again, leaving Ja’far to restrain the injured one for him.  “I’m practically over the hill!  One foot in the grave!  Did you know I found a wrinkle on my forehead just the other day?  I even had a thought about settling down earlier, though I think it was just the pain speaking.”  Sinbad cranes his neck to look over at Ja’far.  “Can you believe that?  Me?  Settling down?”  

An amused huff is all the response Sinbad gets and they sit in silence for a while, just breathing quietly and letting the shake of adrenaline leave their muscles.  

“It wouldn’t be so bad, you know,” a quiet voice pipes up eventually.  “Settling down.  Staying somewhere for a while.”  

Sinbad’s eyes shift to the side, looking at Ja’far, but he is staring straight ahead, gaze fixed on the horizon.  The idea that Ja’far might not like the life he leads had never occurred to him.  

“Are you unhappy, Ja’far?  You don’t have to come with me, you know.  You can always stay back at headquarters.”  

“No, Sinbad.  I’m happy with all of our friends.  More than you know,” Ja’far sighs.  “You have given me more of a home than I ever thought I would have.  I’m just saying it wouldn’t be bad to stop constantly moving.  To come back to the same pillows and the same bed and the same cracked cups every day.  I’ve never had that.  It sounds… nice.”  

Sinbad starts in surprise.  He’d never even thought that Ja’far -- that a great many of his friends and followers -- might want this same thing.  He’d been so busy finding land and accumulating wealth and allies to start his country that, as silly as it sounded in his own head, he’d all but forgotten that “settling down” was exactly what he was aiming for.  

He imagines for a second what that would be like: squeaky chairs and worn floors and sheets that smelled like home.  He  finds it not as abhorrent a thought as he had always assumed it would be.  

“You know, Ja’far, you’re right--”

“I usually am.”

“Rude.  Always interrupting me.”  Sinbad gestures to the piles of treasure around them and furrows his brow.  “Anyway, how much do you think we have here?” 

Ja’far eyes it speculatively.  “A lot.”  

“Enough to build a palace without denting our usual income?”

Grey eyes turn towards Sinbad in surprise, before seeing the expectant look on his face and shifting back to survey the sweep of wealth all around them.  

“Yes.  I think so, as long as we don’t have to buy the land to go with it.”

“Well then, how about we build ourselves a home, Ja’far?”  

The light that sparks in Ja’far’s face, however he tries to hide it, makes something strange and hot and anxious build in Sinbad’s chest.  But before he can analyze this reaction, as well as why his definition of “home” seems to include Ja’far’s shoes next to his own at the foot of a bed, Ja’far interrupts him by shaking his leg.  

“There they are!  Up you get.  Better look glorious and triumphant for all of your future subjects, Your Majesty,” Ja’far teases, bouncing to his own feet.  

Sinbad grumbles as he is half-dragged up to stand while fighting down the strange anxiety in his chest, trying to smack Ja’far for his comments, and nearly toppling over as he does so.  

It’s another minute before he spots torches and the light of Yamuraiha’s staff on the horizon.  He briefly marvels over the fact that Ja’far always sees things, always hears them, before nearly anyone else; except maybe Masrur.  

He shares one last glance and a grin with Ja’far before gritting his teeth against the pain and striding forward towards his friends.  Sinbad forces any worries about his magoi, his age, and the strange warmth he feels when he looks at Ja’far out of his mind, and focuses instead on how excited he is to tell his family that they are about to have a home.  


	2. Twenty-four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just goin a long on my merry way. 
> 
> Sorry these two chapters have been short, they get much longer after this.

Sinbad is just shy of twenty-four, and searching for his best friend so that he can properly go out and celebrate his on-coming birthday, as well as the official completion of their new country.  For all his love of celebration, Sinbad doesn’t like to make a fuss of his own birthday; but it’s not every day one manages to create an independent, utopian nation, after all.  

They’ve been housing tens of thousands of war refugees, primarily from Parthevia, for years now; but today marks the day that palace construction, and thus the construction of all of their primary political offices, is complete.  

Ja’far, uncharacteristically (or entirely characteristically, depending on how long one has known him), is nowhere to be found.  Sinbad has even managed to convince Drakon (in newly-wedded bliss) and Hinahoho (still mourning, no matter what he says), to come out and have a good time with everyone, but Ja’far has no doubt locked himself obstinately in his office.  

Sinbad strides confidently down the halls towards Ja’far’s workplace, heavy robes and the clinking of new metal vessels still feeling foreign to him.  The boy has taken to absolutely burying himself in work as of late, and Sinbad intends to ameliorate this issue.  (Some part of Sinbad is insistent that Ja’far is no longer a boy, but twenty-one and a man for many years more, having just beaten Sinbad to his birthday by a few weeks; but Sinbad dismisses this as irrelevant).  He pushes the door to the office open gently.  As fond as he is of dramatic entrances, Sinbad has had enough knives thrown at his head for a lifetime, and doesn’t want to add to the count.  

Ja’far, however, is not throwing knives.  He is not even furiously bent over his work, brow adorably creased in concentration.  He is, instead, seated in his cushioned chair (that Sinbad bought him on his recent birthday) and slumped over his desk, cheek pressed to parchment and quill held in his hand even still, leaving a growing inkstain from lack of movement.  

Sinbad lets an unwitting smile cross his face, and walks quietly towards his sleeping advisor.  Head Advisor to the King of Sindria sounds much more official than Best Friend Who Kicks My Ass When Required, after all.  He contemplates just letting Ja’far sleep -- he needs it, certainly -- but Ja’far would be angry if Sinbad didn’t wake him, especially since he would be going out to party without “proper supervision.”  Sinbad scoffs; as if a man with seven metal vessels needs supervision within his own country.  

But Sinbad is still here, so he clearly wants the supervision, or even just the company.  For all the women he can call to his bed, all Sinbad really wants for his twenty-fourth birthday is Ja’far drunk and asleep on his shoulder.  He is still a village fishing boy somewhere inside, and Sinbad misses the shared beds of their youth, the comfort from having half a dozen resting bodies surrounding him as a ship rocks them all to sleep.  

He pets Ja’far’s head gently to bring him to wakefulness, pressing down various cowlicks left from his discarded keffiyeh as he does so.  Disobedient tufts of hair don’t adhere to his will, no different than their owner, and they bounce as Ja’far jerks his head up from the desk and rises to wakefulness.  

Ja’far’s guard is up as soon as he wakes, though it quickly dissipates when he sees it is only Sinbad.  

“Sin?  My apologies.  I was just finishing up the last of the construction work.  Final payments to the foreman and all that.”  He pauses to look at his messy calligraphy in disgust, fumbling his robes back into order.  “What did you need?”

“Nothing but the company of a friend.”  Sinbad pauses to grab Ja’far’s hands before they can reach for his keffiyeh.  “Don’t bother.  Payments and work can wait ‘til morning.  I want you to put on some comfortable clothes and come celebrate the completion of our country with everyone.”

“But--”

“Ja’far, if anything, just come celebrate my birthday with me,” Sinbad interrupts the inevitable protests.  “Please,” he adds.  “Surely that isn’t too much to ask of a friend.”   _ Best friend _ , Sinbad’s mind adds _ , only person who will put up with me twenty-four-seven, lifelong companion, love of my li-- _

“Fine,” Ja’far interrupts his thoughts.  “Just give me a few minutes.  You can wait in the room if you want.  No doubt you will want to judge my outfit.”  

Ja’far rises from his chair and unlocks the door to his room adjoining his office (of course it is; Ja’far designed this wing), proceeding towards his wardrobe.  Sinbad follows, absolutely helpless at the idea of Ja’far undressing before him, no matter the context.  He tries not to overanalyze these thoughts, chalking them up to being a young man with a furiously active libido, but these issues have been more and more intrusive as of late.  

Unlike Sinbad, Ja’far is not one to fuss about his appearance or his nakedness, and makes short work of choosing his usual sleeved dress shirt and dark pants to accompany it.  

“Good enough?”  He asks patronizingly, a hand on his hip.  

Sinbad rifles through Ja’far’s closet for a moment, finding a deep purple sash and tying it about his waist.  He plucks the gem from Ja’far’s keffiyeh and lays the delicate chain across pale hair and equally pale forehead.  

“Good enough.”  He nods before grabbing Ja’far’s arm and dragging him out into the hallway.  “Everyone else is already waiting down at my favorite bar by now.”  

Ja’far is quick to brush Sinbad’s hands off of his person, hurrying to walk beside him down the palace steps and into the greater area of the city.  They engage in casual conversation and comfortable silence, but mostly Sinbad is focused on the way Ja’far’s face is intermittently lit by the streetlights (bless Yamuraiha and her genius public circuitry).  He looks tired but content, obviously relishing the stretch to his legs and the room he has to flex his arms and hands, if his movements are anything to go by.  Ja’far loves his accounts and balanced numbers, Sinbad knows, but he’s also a man of action, and Sinbad hopes he can get out to train more soon now that the construction is complete.  Before he can extend an invitation for Ja’far to join him on his morning run, Sinbad finds himself already at the bar, feeling slightly disappointed that the topic of conversation must now change.  

“Come on, Ja’far.  I’m sure Masrur needs rescuing from the women by now.”  Sinbad laughs facetiously as he opens the heavy wooden door and pushes Ja’far inside.  

As they enter the boisterous warmth, Sinbad chuckles at the fact that Masrur does indeed appear to need rescuing.  The teenager looks utterly confounded at the women cooing in his lap, flitting between himself and Sharrkan, who looks far more comfortable with the attention.  At the sight of Sinbad, their new king, everyone stops moving -- something he is not sure he enjoys -- before Ja’far, ever his savior, shuffles forward to seat himself next to Masur before beckoning Sinbad in, and everything resumes its normal pace.  

Soon enough, he finds himself with a woman seated on his left and Hinahoho teasing him from across the table.  Ja’far, to Sinbad’s right, has a beautiful girl on his lap, a drink in his hand, and in Sinbad’s opinion, is looking far too happy about it; nevermind that Sinbad had been the one to drag him out in the first place.  

Ja’far is  _ Sinbad’s _ , after all; his friend, his advisor, his life partner.  Sinbad is a bit too drunk to understand the jealousy that wells up in him when Ja’far laughs and the girl in his lap presses a kiss to pale, chapped lips.  He is about to interrupt when a large foot kicks him under the table.  Whether it is Hinahoho or Drakon is indeterminable.  They are both glaring at him with clear intent.  Ja’far is having fun.  Masrur appears content now that it is only one oddly-silent young woman smiling in his lap instead of four loud ones.  Sharrkan and Yamuraiha are squabbling at the opposite end of the table, and Spartos (damn the boy for looking so like his brother) is laughably uncomfortable as he tries to restrict tiny, fiery Pisti to only water and juices.  Everyone is too absorbed in drink and companions and merriment to be worth interrupting.  

Sinbad grabs the nearest girl to him around the waist possessively and tries not to fume.  

Hinahoho snorts and goes back to his drink and conversation.  Saher grins at Sinbad crookedly before snuggling closer to Drakon and joining in.  It’s something about naval military tactics; Sinbad can’t be bothered at this moment.  

Ja’far is on his fifth drink now, not an inconsiderable amount considering his poor alcohol tolerance, and doing far more than just kissing the lovely woman who has apparently elected him to be her victim for the night.  Her foot is trailing down his calf, the hand that isn’t in Ja’far’s hair grabbing at the buttons of his shirt, worming its way inside.  Ja’far is far from protesting.  One of his hands is snaking up her chest, the other rubbing across her upper thigh.  

Sinbad finds the two girls he has in his lap suddenly a source of intense interest.  He’s kissing one, then the other, hands seeking and groping, noises of encouragement leaving his mouth.  The fact that he is often glancing to the side to see if Ja’far notices these attentions hardly registers in his alcohol-impaired, hormone-ridden brain.   _ But Ja’far doesn’t notice _ , Sinbad observes, nonetheless.  

_ It doesn’t matter _ , he convinces himself.   _ Both of these women are much prettier than Ja’far _ . 

And yet that doesn’t stop him from constantly looking over, even the attentions of two beautiful girls not enough to occupy him right now.  Ja’far is relaxed, easing farther into his seat and laughing.  The dark-haired woman Ja’far has with him is making conversation, something about accounts and irresponsible bosses, making  _ his Ja’far _ giggle and kiss the wine from her lips.   

“Go get a room,” Sinbad nudges Ja’far and comments, though his snide tone is clearly not noticed through Ja’far’s drunken haze.  

Ja’far and the nameless (at least to Sinbad) woman look at each other and laugh again.  “Good idea,” he says, and they begin to edge their way past Sinbad and out of the booth; obviously stumbling toward Ja’far’s newly furnished room in the palace.  

Sinbad is about to stop them when he feels another kick to his foot.   _ Hinahoho, this time; no doubt about it, with the way he is looking at me _ . 

Sinbad lets them go.  

“Happy birthday, Sin,” Ja’far says as he leaves, trailing a hand along Sinbad’s shoulder.  It’s companionable and caring, but far from the affection Sinbad desires at this moment.  “You’ve done well,” he adds, looking into Sinbad’s eyes even as he grabs his woman’s hand; and somehow this just makes Sinbad feel worse, despite the rare compliment.  

“Only because of you,” Sinbad whispers to his advisor’s retreating back, though it goes unheard.  

He returns his attention to the women with renewed fervor, pretending he never saw Ja’far leaving with someone that wasn’t him.  The blonde on his left tugs at one of his hoops with her teeth and he forces himself to groan appreciatively.  

Sinbad has his friends (minus one, now), his country, wealth, women, and all the drink he desires.  He wants for nothing, and he makes an effort of convincing himself as much, even as whispered words and disorderly tufts of white hair continue to haunt him through the night. 


	3. Twenty-six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beep boop
> 
> (This was originally one too-long chapter, but I decided to break it up)

Sinbad is twenty-six and wishes he were anywhere else but here.  “Here” being literally tied to his desk.  Or rather, tied to his chair which is in turn tied to his desk.  (It had been just the chair at first, but when Ja’far had caught him scooting the chair down the hall, the chair had been tied down as well).  

In fairness to Ja’far, Sinbad really is excessively behind on his work.  Not that Sinbad is willing to take the blame for it.  He’d just been unusually agitated lately, and everyone had been unusually busy and excessively behind on their work.  The stress of keeping a brand new nation afloat amidst several massive empires trying to eat it alive was keeping everyone in the palace both awake at dawn and burning the midnight oil.  Sinbad is a good leader, a good fighter, and a good speaker, but he is _not_ a good desk-worker; and the lack of physical activity is rapidly eating away at his ability to focus.  

They need to start delegating more work, but until they manage to train more administrative workers and officials, the workload is not going to ease up.  Sinbad groans when he realizes this means at least another few weeks of this torment, but buckles down to finish what he must.  He didn’t triumph over an impoverished childhood, an oppressive regime, and hundreds of powerful people who tried to kill him in various ways just to get defeated by some rolls of paper.  (Or Ja’far, who he managed to evade once, but may not be so fortunate to survive again if he doesn’t complete this work on time.)

When he finally finishes his last overly-polite and politically correct letter, Sinbad throws his quill into the air in disgust and gives a small shout of victory.  His cry turns to one of dismay, however, when he tries to stand up and realizes he is still tied to his chair in just such a way that he cannot reach the knots to untie them.  

Sinbad doesn’t know whether he wants to vibrate right out of his chair or just lie down on the desk and cry.  Ja’far will come back to free him eventually (he hopes), but until then his legs are cramping and he is both filled with too much energy to stand still and is so exhausted he can’t function.

He settles for thumping his forehead onto the desk in front of him and making distressed noises somewhere between hysterical laughter and sniffles.  

Right as Sinbad is contemplating whether the alarms that would be set off by his djinn-equipping to escape his chair would be worth the freedom or not, a polite knock is rapped out on his office door and Ja’far enters without waiting for his confirmation to come in.  

“Sin… what are you doing?” Ja’far sounds irate, though he usually is these days.  “Why aren’t you working?”  

“Ja’far, my hero!  Please untie me, I’m about to die here.”  If Sinbad’s eyes go a bit watery and his lips a bit wobbly, well, he’s never been above manipulation.

“That look isn’t going to work on me right now, Sin.  You have _got_ to finish your work.  We’re all up too late and away from our friends and families so that _your damn country can stay a--_ ”

“I’m done!  I’m finished!  Look, it’s all completed right there.”  Sinbad gestures to the piles of paper stacked on his desk.  “God, Ja’far, I swear I can do nothing right in your eyes anymore.”  Sinbad is a bit unnecessarily angry, sure, but he’s also tired and a little hurt at the lack of confidence in him.  

“That’s probably because I have to _literally tie you down_ to get you to do anything here.”  Ja’far is clearly trying not to stomp around Sinbad’s office, sorting completed work into various shelves and boxes, still leaving Sinbad trapped.  “I shouldn’t have to force you to take care of your own country, Sinbad.”  

“I’m no good at this, Ja’far, you know that!  I try and I try, but after a while I have to read the same sentence three times just to remember what it said!”  Ja’far’s criticism is hitting him harder than it would from anyone else.  “And I _always_ do what I have to do to take care of my people.  Don’t you _dare_ insinuate otherwise.  I’m your friend, Ja’far, but don’t forget I’m also your _king_.”  

Ja’far finally gives up and stomps over to Sinbad’s desk, leaning over it to look down at Sinbad.  There are dark bags under his eyes, and blotches on his face from where he has clearly been scratching at it in anxiety, but Sinbad refuses to feel sympathy.  Ja’far isn’t the only one who is tired and frustrated.

“Certainly, Your Majesty.  Forgive my impudence,” he spits bitterly.   “But if you _always_ did your job, then Spartos would still have a brother, Parthevia might still have a rightful ruler, I wouldn’t remember my two oldest friends dying in front of me when I can’t sleep at night, and I’d only be short one mother instead of two.”  Ja’far’s eyes are wild and his hands are shaking, and Sinbad doesn’t know whether this makes him frightened, concerned, or just livid.

“You’re only one man, so forgive me for trying to compensate for when you can’t do what you must.”

Ja’far looks horrified as soon as he realizes the words that have left his mouth, but Sinbad isn’t in the state of mind to notice.  The room is silent, but all Sinbad can hear is the sound of his world shattering, and perhaps a bit of his heart breaking.  His face goes blank and his eyes fall to stare unseeing at the wall opposite him.

“Sin…. I’m--”

“Get out, Ja’far.”  

“You know I didn’t--”

“ _LEAVE!_ ”  Sinbad is a bit shocked at his own volume, but he needs Ja’far out of his sight immediately, or he doesn’t know what will happen to his already fractured psyche.  

Ja’far’s eyes are wide and shocked, but he turns rapidly on his heel and leaves.  He turns briefly as he opens the office door, and two daggers thwack into Sinbad’s chair, cutting the ropes he’d entirely forgotten were keeping him in place.  

Sinbad would feel better if Ja’far slammed the door as he left, but he doesn’t; only closes it calmly with a quiet click.  

Sobs well up in his chest but refuse to come out, and Sinbad lets his head drop into his hands.   _Is that really what Ja’far thinks of me?_ All this time, someone Sinbad thought he knew inside and out had been resenting him for years.  

Sinbad is accustomed to criticism, and knew he often deserved it.  He was certainly accustomed to Ja’far’s criticism.  He even invites it on purpose as of late, as it seems to be the only way to get attention from the man anymore.  That was all he had been trying to do earlier, scooting his chair comically down the hall.  True, it was hard for him to concentrate, but really he had just wanted everyone to lighten up and get Ja’far away from his truly manic pace for just a few minutes.  

Obviously, that had not been how his stunt was received.  

What Sinbad wants to do is jump out of the window, get on a boat, sail away from all his friends and hard work and never come back.  He wants to apologize, for everything and nothing.  He wants Ja’far to apologize too, but fears that even if he does, he won’t really mean it.  Sinbad hasn’t wanted his mother so badly for quite a long time.  He hadn’t really intrinsically _understood_ what it took to run a country, even if he technically knew all he needed to know.  Ten years ago when it had seemed so far away, it sounded like heaven.  But he was a child then, and he isn’t any longer, no matter how much he currently feels like one.  And if this is how his closest friend feels about him, then he’s well and truly alone under the burden of thousands of lives depending upon him.  

Thousands of lives he had already failed, as Ja’far had so kindly pointed out.  

Ja’far, Ja’far, Ja’far.  Despite the immense stress Sinbad had been under as of late, despite the crisis he was currently facing, despite all the other things he should be putting his attention into, why couldn’t he just stop worrying about _Ja’far_?

Ja’far, who was clearly never going to be able to give what Sinbad wanted from him.  

Sitting alone in his dark office, Sinbad is willing to admit that.  He can’t keep in a bitter bark of laughter at finally being able to verbalize his feelings.  Too little, too late.  “The Lady Killer of the Seven Seas,” indeed.  There was a reason he had turned down nearly a dozen incredibly advantageous proposals over the last few years, and it wasn’t so that he could keep his options open.  It wasn’t even because he didn’t _want_ to settle down.

It was because none of them were Ja’far.  

Because for all his confidence and bravado, no matter that he knows exactly how attractive and magnetic he is, Sinbad also knows he is not an easy man to live with, let alone complement.  

He had thought Ja’far managed it well.  The perfect person to both keep him in check and push him forward, and someone who would always, always be there.  

Sinbad had been wrong in this, too, as he had been in so many other things.  

When Sindria had nearly fallen before it even began, everyone who survived had dealt with it in their own way.  Sinbad had thought he had made his amends, taking on the rukh -- the hopes and dreams and terror and bitterness -- of all who had died, tainting his own rukh in the process.  

But Ja’far had told him clearly.  He was only one man, and he had obviously failed to account for the resentment of all those left standing; especially those closest to him, who he had assumed would have understood his pain and forgiven him.  

If there had ever been a chance of Ja’far letting Sinbad love him, it had died with everyone else on that day.  


	4. Twenty-six (.5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait to post this, but then I decided I didn't have the heart to leave anyone hanging
> 
> Ja'far's talent for inspirational monolgues in his childhood continues into his adult years.

Sinbad is still twenty-six, though two weeks more of twenty-six than before.  He feels like he has aged ten years in fourteen days, even though the workload on himself and his generals has finally lightened with the bureaucratic structure Ja’far put into place.

Ja’far, who won’t even look him in the eyes any longer.  

He hears his younger generals whispering about them having a fight when they think he isn’t listening.  Hinahoho and Drakon keep gently prodding him, and presumably also Ja’far, to explain what happened, but neither of them are talking about it.  Other than the two directly involved, poor Masrur seems to be taking it the hardest, clearly not knowing who to side with and instead just wandering the halls while looking vaguely lost.  

Sinbad has tried to catch Ja’far alone, but hasn’t succeeded.  The man can really cut himself off when he wants to.  He isn’t sure what he would say, anyway.  Sinbad doesn’t really think he needs to apologize for anything; he’s said plenty of sorrys before, when they were warranted.  He can’t keep apologizing for years-old mistakes and tragedies.  His heart won’t be able to take it.  

Ja’far clearly isn’t going to initiate.  Each interaction between them in the past two weeks has been efficient, but cold and stilted.  No teasing, no nagging, no affectionate smacks or casual hip-bumps.  The palace is running smoothly now, and Sinbad is becoming increasingly aware that outside of his weight as a weapon of mass destruction and his ability to charm the occasional diplomat, he is barely needed to rule his own country.  Half of his generals can forge his signature better than he can do it himself.  

Ja’far, and even Drakon, are clearly better suited for ruling than he is.  They are a little bit feared, but mostly just respected.  They have heads for tactics and organization and know how to push laws through parliament.  They’re polite and don’t rub people the wrong way (unless, of course, it’s Sinbad when he is tied to his chair).  

So it’s a good thing Sinbad’s selfishness has finally won out over his insecurity.  He may not be needed anymore, but he damn well deserves some recognition for the fact that he got his misfit family here in the first place, even with casualties.  

He deserves the company of his best friend.  Because even if he has made a lot of bad choices, Sinbad isn’t the only one who has been wrong.  

Sinbad waits until late at night.  He hasn’t been able to sleep well of late, anyway; too upset and dreams riddled with memories of his friends dying.  Ja’far normally pushes him off with excuses of work, but Sinbad knows he won’t have the excuse of things needing his immediate attention at this late hour.  

He checks Ja’far’s bedroom first, but finds the bed made and the room empty.  His office next, then.  There are few other places he is likely to be.  

Upon knocking, he hears some rustling , but no response.  

“Ja’far?” He calls, knocking again.  

No reply.  

“I know you don’t want to see me, but I’m coming in anyway,” Sinbad announces with as much authority as he can muster, before pushing the door open.  

Ja’far isn’t at his desk where he expects him to be, but the light is on, so he’s here somewhere.  Sinbad doubts Ja’far would sink so low as to actually hide from him.  And sure enough, as Sinbad walks farther into the room, he does find Ja’far, though not really in the manner he expected he would.  

He can actually only see the back of Ja’far’s robes, sliding off of one shoulder but caught from further descent by a pair of feminine legs that are wrapped around his waist.  Sinbad nearly feels all of the courage he’d mustered drain out of his body.  He rather feels like he is going to be sick, actually, but he takes a deep breath in instead.  This isn’t about his less-than-platonic feelings for his general, this is about getting his best friend back.  

Sinbad composes his face and lets out a polite cough.

Ja’far jerks upright, removing his mouth from the neck of the woman he has in his arms, but refuses to turn around.  She, in turn, twists her head to look over Ja’far’s shoulder and raises her eyebrows.  (One of Drakon’s lieutenants, Sinbad idly notes.  An accomplished swordswoman, and very trustworthy, not to mention gorgeous.  Ja’far has chosen well, at least.)

“Can this wait?” She asks, with no lack of humor in her voice.

“Ah, sorry to interrupt, but no, it really can’t,” Sinbad replies.

“Fair enough.”  She disentangles herself from Ja’far, straightens her top, and gives him a kiss on the cheek before walking past Sinbad with a polite bow and a “have a good evening, Your Majesty,” before leaving and considerately shutting the door behind her.  

A few strained beats pass where Ja’far pulls his robe back up over his shoulder, but continues staring at the bookcase in front of him, still not turning to face Sinbad.  

It would actually be hilarious, in almost any other circumstance.  

“Look at me, Ja’far.  I know you don’t want to, but please.  Before I have to order you.”

Ja’far turns and stares at Sinbad, crossing his arms over his chest.  He must see some sort of strange expression on Sinbad’s face; that, or he is just annoyed with the interruption, and he forgoes his usual silence. 

“Oh, please, Sinbad.  I like companionship just as much as anyone else.”  

Sinbad just hopes his flushed face isn’t visible in the dim lighting.  

He grimaces.  “I really am sorry about that.  I thought you were just ignoring me at the door.”  He fumbles a bit awkwardly, but Ja’far just continues staring at him expectantly.  Well, he’s staring at some place past Sinbad’s shoulder, really, since he still won’t make eye contact.  

“I know you don’t want to see me, but I don’t care.  You know very well I’m a selfish man, and I want my best friend back.”  

Ja’far’s face pinches into an expression of pain, but he says nothing, and still won’t meet Sinbad’s eyes.  

“I can’t keep apologizing for all the mistakes I have made forever, Ja’far.  Every day I wish I could have saved everyone, more than I can explain.  But I can’t keep feeling sorry I didn’t.  I won’t.  I can’t take that much guilt for the rest of my life.”  

Ja’far exhales and leans back against the bookcase behind him, eyes closed and head tilted up towards the ceiling.  

Seeing as he isn’t leaving or expressing anger, Sinbad continues, trying to conceal his desperation.  “I know I’m not needed like I used to be,  but I worked hard to make this country, and I’m going to make it greater still, even if I have to do it all on my own.”  He looks to the side, never good at expressing vulnerability.  “Though I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.  Some added strength to handle that pressure would be appreciated.”  

Ja’far makes a strange sort of choking noise, finally meeting Sinbad’s eyes properly for the first time in weeks.  “Sin--.”  He cuts himself off with a shake of his head.  “Ugh, come here.”  He grabs a blanket off of one of the chairs, beckoning Sinbad with him towards the balcony of his office.  Instead of standing there, poised and looking out at the city as he is usually wont to do, Ja’far hops unceremoniously over the railing, landing gently on the roof below him.  When Sinbad peers over and looks down at him in surprise, Ja’far just frowns and gestures for him to jump down and join him.  

Ja’far backs up underneath the overhanging balcony and sits down, back against the cool stone, wrapping the blanket around himself.  When Sinbad just stands there awkwardly, Ja’far clucks in annoyance and motions him over to sit next to him.  Sinbad does, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, gripping his own bare forearms around his knees.  Ja’far drops his head and pushes a hand through his hair in frustration, eyeing the strained few feet of distance between them.  He scoots over until he is shoulder to shoulder with Sinbad, nudging the blanket over both of their figures.  

This is far outside of what Sinbad had expected this conversation to be, so he just continues to sit in silence, feeling incredibly out of his depth.  

“Do you remember, Sin, when you first took me in and I could hardly sleep more than half an hour at a time?”  Ja’far begins.  Sinbad looks up at him in surprise, but nods in acknowledgment.  “Sleeping all together, that many people in one room on a little boat in the middle of the ocean, was the most terrifying thing I had ever done.  I couldn’t escape or kill everyone on that boat without dying myself.  My whole life had been spent avoiding situations that were dangerous like that, and every time someone breathed too loudly or turned over, I woke up.  When I would doze off and you would kick me, or you’d push a pillow onto me, I’d almost kill you out of reflex.  Vittel and Mahad grew up together on the streets, it didn’t take long for their bodies to remember how to sleep when they were safe.  I’d never had that, though.  Hundreds of times I had my knives at your throat, and you were either a very good actor or just that heavy of a sleeper.” 

Ja’far laughs at the odd expression of nostalgic terror on Sinbad’s face.  “A heavy sleeper, then.  I really do pity the people who share your bed; you cling, you know.  

“One night about two months in, you rolled over, grabbed me, and even in your sleep, lacked the sense to let go when I nearly slit your wrists.  You drooled all over me and everything,” he laughs.  

“I woke up almost three hours later and  _ cried _ , Sin.  I’d never slept that long in one stretch that I remembered.  Hinahoho was snoring horribly loudly, your hair was all stuck to my face,  Mahad was lying on my arm and it was all cramped up, and I’d never felt so safe and cared for in my life.”

Sinbad hears the odd crack in Ja’far’s voice and fights to avoid looking at him.  He doesn’t know what Ja’far will see in his eyes if he does.  

“My point is,” Ja’far continues, “That I can’t ever blame you for trusting a child you thought you could save.  Not when I had your life in my hands hundreds of times, and never took it.”  He bumps his shoulder with Sinbad’s.  “Even if I sometimes still want to.  

“I really didn’t mean it, what I said.  I haven’t been avoiding you because I’m angry with you.  I just didn’t know how to apologize for saying something like that.  I was exhausted, and angry, and when I’m vulnerable it does still hurt that my friends are gone and no one could have saved them.  But they were your friends and family too, and I’m no less to blame than you are.”

Ja’far takes a deep breath.  “You trusted me, and we managed to make this.”  A pale hand gestures to the sweep of the city below them.  “The fact that you trusted Judar and he just happened to be the only child on the planet powerful enough and mad enough to level a city is no one’s fault but those who made him that way, even if I will probably always hate him for it.

“Your instinctive trust in people, even when you try to convince us all that you’re too hard for that sort of thing, is the best and worst thing about you, Sin.  You know potential when you see it, and the survivor in you can’t help but try to use it.”

Sinbad frowns, still not too fond of how manipulative he has become.  

“It’s not a bad thing, Sin.  Especially in a leader.

“As for needing you, I can’t believe you ever thought we didn’t.  Sure, we could carry on without you if we had to, but you’re the lynch-pin personality in this whole mad scheme of yours, you know.”

Sinbad furrows his brow in confusion and opens his mouth to protest that while that may have once been true, it isn’t any longer; but Ja’far just shoves a corner of the blanket over his open mouth.  

“Sinbad,” Ja’far can’t keep the laughter out of his voice, “this country is run by an illiterate child assassin, a treasonous dragon, a late-blooming Imuchakk warrior, the second son of a truly constipated religious order, an exiled prince, an orphan of a magical war, a child gladiator, and the youngest daughter of an isolationist matriarchal society.  You cannot  _ possibly _ think we would have all fallen together without you.  

“If that isn’t enough for you, look at the people who keep coming here every day: refugees, escaped slaves, women from bad marriages, children from broken homes, men running with their families from the draft.”  He looks pointedly at Sinbad here.  “You think they come for me?  For the scenery?  For our finely-organized bureaucracy? 

“They come for you, Sin.  Because they know you will see the potential in them, and give them a place to live up to it.”

Sinbad refuses to look over at his friend, but he’s never been good at showing how he really feels, and Ja’far knows it.  He flicks Sinbad in the jaw and chuckles when Sinbad wheels upon him looking thoroughly offended, but with a slight glimmer of tears in his eyes.  

“We all need you, Sin.  We’d be lost without you, every single one of us.”  

Sinbad drops his head onto his knees and Ja’far presses against his side, pulling the blanket around them both and pretending he doesn’t hear Sinbad crying.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make everything unrealistically dramatic bc it is fun


	5. Twenty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to update this because I am moving, but then I remembered.

Sinbad is twenty-seven, and he has just about had it.  Not with being twenty-seven; that is welcome, seeing as twenty-six might have been the worst year of his entire life.  And that’s coming from a man with a lot of bad years behind him.  

But everything has finally, blessedly, settled down.  A bit of chaos has never bothered Sinbad, but the sort of chaos that has to be forced into enough of a system to run a cross-continental mercantile alliance just about ended him and everything he cares about.  

No, what Sinbad has had it with is Ja’far.  It’s not even Ja’far’s fault, this time.  The man has only been doing his job, and doing it well.  He still nags Sinbad to get his work done, grabs him by the collar when he tries to have drunken sock-sliding races down the admittedly perfect-for-sock-sliding marble halls with Sharrkan, and organizes every single treaty and tax report alphabetically and chronologically.  

Oh, but it is summer, and Ja’far has never dealt well with the heat.  This would not normally be an exceptional problem, but for the fact that Ja’far now usually joins Sinbad for his morning run.  Also that this particular morning it was warm enough that Ja’far took his shirt off.  And really, that’s more than any reasonable human should be expected to handle, in Sinbad’s opinion.  

Add to this the fact that, though Sinbad hadn’t known it until recently, Ja’far cycles through nearly as many bed partners as he himself.  It had actually taken a fair bit of digging to find that bit out.  Either by the fortune of not being the king, and thus less scrutinized, or just being more discreet about it, Ja’far’s sexual habits are really not a major topic of discussion, despite his proliferation.  What Sinbad does hear is only incredulous praise, and now that he knows about it, it is starting to drive Sinbad up the proverbial wall.  

Tiny, angry Ja’far, the child Sinbad grew up with and who looked like he was ten until he was fifteen, is apparently an unspoken rival of the Lady Killer of the Seven Seas.  And with years of pent-up affection, not to mention romantic feelings, inside him, it’s no wonder Sinbad has had just about as much as he can take with regards to his first subordinate.  

That afternoon, coincidentally enough, provides Sinbad with the perfect opportunity to relay his frustrations.  

Sinbad has a meeting with a delegate for a nation just west of Kou, one who is fearing for the survival of her nation.  A nation that just happens to have a delegate that is their princess.  She is gorgeous, of marriageable age, well-educated and interesting.  She is very clearly offering herself in return for an alliance and military support for her country.  Sinbad is inclined to agree.  He is going to have to face Kou sooner or later, and it might as well be with this woman’s country at his beck and call.  They have as much to offer as they do to take, in terms of trade.  He is not, however, inclined to take her as his bride, any more than all the women who have offered before her.  

She actually appears a bit relieved, if incredulous, when he turns down her proposal of marriage but accepts her proposal for an alliance.  

Sinbad sends her off with good will.  “Take a husband you love, if you can.  You’re a beautiful and talented young woman, I’m sure you’ll find someone who appreciates that fully.”  

Ja’far does not approve, and makes that clear as soon as the princess is on board her ship and off on her way.  

“Sin, I know you don’t want to settle down, but it really is time you took a wife,” he grumbles as they walk the gardens on the way to their chambers after dinner.  “She was beautiful, she was smart, she clearly found you attractive enough that you could have, one day, had a nice relationship with her. You have to establish your lineage in this country somehow.”  

Sinbad chuckles at the time-worn admonishment and grabs Ja’far about the waist.  (He may have had a few extra glasses of wine at dinner to bolster his courage, but who can blame him?).  “There is no need to be related to me to be a good ruler of Sindria, Ja’far.  Lord knows, I’m of no noble lineage myself.”

Ja’far scrunches his nose up in an expression of displeasure, but ultimately relents to the touch.  

“What about that girl you took in a few weeks ago?”  Sinbad asks.  Ja’far sways his head away from Sinbad to look at him in surprise.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.  The one that tried to mug you in town?  You took her in, you’re training her to read and fight right now.  She has as much potential as any child of mine.”  

Ja’far has the decency to look slightly abashed, but doesn’t say anything in protest to Sinbad’s declaration.  “She had guts,” he says instead.  “Reminded me of what Vittel would have been when he was small.  I thought the least I could do was sponsor her.  Out of my own personal accounts,” he adds hurriedly.  

“She’s sleeping in the room next to yours, Ja’far,” Sinbad teases.  

“Ok, maybe I think she’s cute and I care for her,” Ja’far retaliates.  “So sue me.”  

Sinbad just nuzzles into Ja’far’s hair affectionately, taking advantage of their closeness.  “You’re far softer than you make yourself out to be.  My point still stands, though; there are plenty of people in this country just as capable of ruling as I, despite having no blood relation to me.”  

Ja’far relents the point.  It would be good for the country, to have a system of leadership not based upon blood relation.  

“It still might do you good to have someone consistent, you know.  Not that it’s required, but a committed relationship is something most people seem to enjoy at your age.”  Ja’far can’t resist the prod at one of Sinbad’s few insecurities.  

Sinbad holds a hand to his heart, feigning mortal injury.  “Ja’,far, you wound me.  I’m as young and spry as when we first met!”  

Ja’far snorts in amusement.  “Ah, that’s why you’ve been asking Yamuraiha for soothing herbs at night after you train.”  

They amble along the path in silence for a while, before Sinbad speaks up again.  “I’m not opposed to a committed relationship, you know.  That princess just wasn’t it.”  

“Nor any of the ones before?” Ja’far asks skeptically.

“Nor any of the ones before,” Sinbad confirms.  “How am I supposed to explain my life to a woman raised in royalty?  No matter my status now, none of them will ever understand where I come from, Ja’far,” he adds in a rush.  

“Not… not the way you do,” Sinbad grabs Ja’far tighter about the waist and stops his movement forwards.  

Ja’far looks at his king quizzically.  Tired and fed, with a few glasses of wine himself, he doesn’t really understand where Sinbad is going with this.

“Are you alright, Sin?”  He asks.  “You don’t have to marry if you don’t want to, you know.  I was only suggesting it.”  

Sinbad switches his grip to Ja’far’s upper arms, and holds him tight.  “Ja’far, don’t think I haven’t thought about this seriously, because oh gods, if I haven’t thought about this.  And if you don’t want it, then forgive me if you can.”

Ja’far barely has time to look shocked or confused before Sinbad’s lips are on his own.  

His first instinct, Sinbad can tell, is the same as with any unexpected physical contact; and that is to push him away, possibly with threat of violence.  

Sinbad is not deterred, however, and pushes more fervently against Ja’far’s mouth, his own lips slightly parted, hands firm but not inescapable on Ja’far’s shoulders.  He’s thought about this a thousand times and knows Ja’far doesn’t respond well to feeling trapped.  

When Ja’far backs away, Sinbad lets him.  

Large, dark eyes look at him in bewilderment.  Sinbad can’t tell if Ja’far is hurt or just totally lost, and he relinquishes his grip on his closest friend.  

“...Sin?” is the quiet, confused noise that leaves Ja’far’s mouth first.  

Sinbad gulps and tries not to make it obvious.  “I love you, Ja’far.  I think I’ve loved you since the moment you sat in my lap, covered in blood, and snapped my shoulder back into my socket all those years ago.  Probably long before then, if I’m honest.”  

Ja’far is still looking at him in abject confusion, so Sinbad decides he must continue, if he is to have a chance of getting what he wants.  “I’ve never,” he shifts his eyes nervously, “I’ve never done this before, so I can’t really speak from experience.  But you know me better than anyone else, the good parts and the bad, and you’ve never left me.  I’m not one for romance, but I have never, ever, felt this way about anyone but you, Ja’far.”  

Sinbad checks for any signs of discomfort or fear, but finds none on Ja’far’s worryingly blank face.  “If you don’t want anything to change, that’s… well it’s not fine, but I’ll understand and accept it with grace, anyway.”  Sinbad can’t seem to stop fidgeting.  “There have been a lot of reasons for me not to marry in the past, but when it has come down to it, at least on a personal level, that reason has always been nothing more and nothing less than  _ you _ .”  

Sinbad is standing there now, vibrating with nervous energy, heart in his throat.  This is the way he imagines teenagers often feel, trying to confess their love,  but he’s never experienced it until this moment.  Ja’far is standing across from him, largely hidden in the shadows of the foliage over him, saying nothing, with no emotion crossing his face.  

Ja’far suddenly steps towards him, a sort of intensity in his face that Sinbad has only ever associated with great violence, and he steps unconsciously back.  This continues for a few brief moments, Sinbad feeling increasingly more trepidation as Ja’far strides calmly towards him, hands folded placidly in front of his torso, and Sinbad continues to back up.  

Finally, Sinbad’s back hits the trunk of a flowering tree behind him, and he can retreat no farther.  Ja’far steps directly in front of him, and despite his smaller stature, somehow still makes it feel like he is looming over one of the most powerful men in world.  

“Sin, I gave my life to you all those years ago, when you saved me.  My life, my body, my talents.  In whatever capacity you need me or want me, I’m inclined to give it.  I am closer to no one than you, and this is no different.”  Ja’far’s face is mere inches from Sinbad’s, and whether he means harm or compliance is clear in his words, but not in his mannerisms.  

“For what it’s worth,” finally a warm smile crosses nearly icy features, “I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life beside anyone but you.”  

And suddenly Ja’far’s lips are on Sinbad’s, instead of the reverse.  Sinbad, mighty conqueror of seven dungeons, a boy -- then a man -- blessed by destiny, is sliding down the bark of the tree at his back, helpless before the man on top of him.  And on top of him, he is; small, sharp teeth nipping at full lips, and it is nothing that Sinbad expected, but everything he has ever wanted.  

“You’re everything to me, Sin.  Never question that again.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tune in for loving porn on the next episode


	6. Twenty-nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is sex below.  
> Below this cut, there is sex.  
> Most people seem to enjoy that, if it is not to your preference, you have been warned. It is lovey-dovey, but you aren't missing much other than sex. 
> 
> In honor of me moving to a new city and a new school in a new room, here ya go.

 

Sinbad is twenty-nine, and accustomed to being in this sort of position by now.  It’s welcome, even, if perhaps not suitably dignified for a king.  

So it’s a good thing Sinbad has never really been the usual sort of king, then.    

He is naked and lying on his belly, arms spread out from where they are tied to his bedposts, and face pressed into a pillow.  Despite this, he is warm and comfortable, long past feeling any embarrassment at such a display -- at least, in the appropriate company.  

The only member of said appropriate company is currently perched on his hips, giving him leverage to bend over Sinbad’s back and work the knots out of the dense muscle there.  

“Tell me if I push too hard or a spot is too tender, Sin.”  

Sinbad just lets out a sleepy moan in response, pushing his back up into Ja’far’s hands and hoping he gets the idea that what he is doing is perfect, if a bit sore.  

Sinbad hasn’t been slim since he was a teenager, his body growing thick and dense and powerful instead of long, lean, and flexible. He doesn’t mind, as it is well-suited to the short, quick bursts of djinn-equipped combat that make up the warzones in his life.  He has people like Sharrkan and Ja’far to fight the long, acrobatic battles for him.  

What does prickle a bit at his vanity, however, is that the last five years have seen him soften a bit around the edges.  Despite his best efforts and rather rigorous training schedule, the fine food and drink, slightly more sedentary lifestyle, and the inevitable fact that he is no longer a young man -- with the metabolism to match -- have left him with a bit more weight around his middle.  

Ja’far doesn’t seem to mind like Sinbad does.  He appreciates it, even, humming tunelessly and no doubt smiling as he kneads across Sinbad’s hips and lower back.  

Sinbad winces as a knot in his hip he swears has been there for months releases under Ja’far’s strong hands, and Ja’far spins himself around to face the opposite direction, his hands working their their way down Sinbad’s legs and towards his feet.  

All extremities and sore muscles finally attended to, Ja’far clambers off of Sinbad’s form and begins peeling off his clothing, tantalizingly out of view of Sinbad’s bound body.  Sometimes, at this point, Ja’far will decide he has had enough and make short work of filling Sinbad, pounding into him mercilessly and leaving him gloriously sated but with a sore, uncomfortable, and cramping lower abdomen the next day.  But quick, rough sex has always been more Sinbad’s forte; partially on account of Ja’far having a better poker face under the following discomfort than he, and partially on account of him not being able to control himself from snatching Ja’far from the halls and pushing him into the nearest dim corner. 

And tonight does not appear to be one of of those nights, anyway.  When Ja’far returns to the bed to plop himself down on Sinbad’s thighs, his chest is bare, but the soft, comfortable pants he wears beneath his formal robes are still on.

Sinbad turns his head enough to give Ja’far a glimpse at one inquisitive, golden eye and Ja’far snorts.  “Nothing too rough tonight.  Unlike you, I’m thinking of the four-hour meeting you have tomorrow.”  Sinbad pouts a bit for effect, and Ja’far gives a huff of laughter.  “I might like watching you twitching around tomorrow, but I doubt you would.”  He licks his lips and plants his hands on Sinbad’s ass.  “Besides, you like all that far more than I do, and I figure after I let you haul me from my papers and practically straight onto your cock yesterday, I could take a bit more of what  _ I  _ like.”  

Oh, does Sinbad know what Ja’far likes.  He likes Sinbad nearly in tears, faced smashed into his pillow, his desk, the floor.  He likes Sinbad whimpering pathetically in pain and pleasure, abdominals rippling, body clenching in ecstasy.  He likes breathy cries and the moans that leak out from the barrier of his teeth.  Ja’far gets off on him getting off, as foreign as it seems to Sinbad.  He has seen the man come without a touch to his own body, simply watching Sinbad as he pleasures him (though, admittedly, only in Ja’far’s weaker, more inebriated moments). 

His cock hardens a bit at the thought, and Sinbad’s hips shift upward into Ja’far’s hold.  His face is back in his pillow, but Sinbad knows Ja’far is probably trying to hold back a grin as his hands grab Sinbad’s ass and squeeze.  Much to his chagrin, this is Ja’far’s favorite part of him, and one he compliments often.  Sinbad isn’t sure how he should feel about having the size of his royal posterior frequently complimented, but embarrassment about his weight aside, Ja’far seems to genuinely enjoy it, and Sinbad is far from denying that to the man he loves.  

And love him he does.  Sinbad tells him as often as he can, much to Ja’far’s annoyance.  He stopped seeing other people almost immediately after he finally had Ja’far, but he is less certain of how long it took Ja’far to follow suit.  Sinbad still doubts, sometimes, with how sparing Ja’far is in his displays of public or emotive affection.  But excepting his temper, Ja’far has generally tended towards the more reserved, and if he says Sinbad is his only partner, Sinbad has trusted him with far more on far less evidence.  Still though, he relishes times like this, when there is no doubt of all of Ja’far’s attentions are upon him.

Sinbad sighs as hands trail up and down his crack, alternating between gliding over his balls and perineum to massage back into his cheeks.  As much as he enjoys, even craves, the tension and release and implicit trust of the more adventurous activities he often asks of Ja’far, there is something to be said for just lying back and knowing he will be taken care of.  Having to exert so much control in nearly every aspect of his life, Sinbad likes letting Ja’far lead him around in this.  Aside from just feeling good, which it does, it makes Sinbad feel oddly cared for.  

He doesn’t like to admit it, but until recently with Ja’far, no one had wholly taken care of Sinbad since he was nine years old and his mother fell ill.  Sinbad takes great effort to appear strong, independent, and impenetrable before the rest of the world, but he needs someone to take care of him just as much as any other human.

All melancholy thoughts flee from his mind as fingers finally graze across his hole.  When Ja’far had complied with Sinbad’s request and told him he was willing to take the night off and spend it with Sinbad, it had taken quite a bit of work to make himself ready; but it all feels worth it now.  He is clean, inside and out, shaven, relaxed and dazed with the massage, supremely comfortable in his own bed, and wants nothing more than Ja’far inside him, filling him, keening with pleasure into his ear.  

But not yet, because Ja’far is nothing if not a tease when the mood strikes him.  Calloused fingertips rub across his anus but never enter, and Sinbad grunts in frustration as he tries to press himself back into the touch and gain some sort of penetration.  

Ja’far smacks him playfully on the ass.  “What have I told you about your self-control, Sin?”  He can hear the smile in the raspy voice.  

“That I have none, which will never change, mind you, and should be apparent right now,” he grumbles.  “Put it in, Ja’far.  You’ve been touching me for ages.”  

A finger teases a few more times into his well-lubricated crack before it complies to his demand, and Sinbad humps into the bed as he feels that single digit penetrate him all the way to the final knuckle.  He can feel Ja’far shift his weight backwards on his thighs, obviously just enjoying the view, and continues to roll his hips into the minimal penetration.

“Ja’far…” he whines.  

“What, Sin?  You don’t think I can please you with just this?”  

He can.  He has before; but Sinbad neither wants to admit that or succumb to that humiliation tonight.  

“If you’re not going to tie me up and use your knives, at least give me more than this,” he complains.  

A second finger slides embarrassingly easily into his hole.  “Enough?” Ja’far asks, voice lilting humorously.  

“Bastard,” Sinbad spits between frantic breaths.  It’s not enough forever, but it is enough for now, and he bends his back a bit to get Ja’far’s fingers right where he wants them.  

He gasps as those fingers begin to curl and stretch, creating pressure on his prostate.  To think, Sinbad had never known this sensation until he’d been with Ja’far.  It had been… surprising, to say the least.  Brief reminiscence is interrupted as Ja’far keeps his fingers pressed deeply inside of Sinbad, not moving aside from tapping rapidly and insistently against his prostate.  Sinbad can barely breathe, his insides tightening and relaxing as his cock drips where it is pressed into the sheets, and feels his balls begin to draw up in a sign of impending climax, right before those fingers are removed.  He whimpers pathetically; Sinbad had known it would not be that simple, but it is still a bit painful to experience.  

A cool, thick liquid is poured along his ass, scented differently from the massage oil they had been using before, and Ja’far returns with three dripping fingers.  He can be brutal when pushed, but Ja’far is always, always a careful man at his core.  

Ja’far lifts himself from Sinbad’s thighs briefly, the bed creaking as bare feet land on the floor, and Sinbad glances over long enough to see him pulling his pants swiftly off of his legs, before turning his head back into the bed, knowing the sight will do him in when he wants to last much longer.  

After a bit of shuffling, pale, slim thighs sit back upon thick, strong ones and Sinbad can’t help the guttural sound that leaves him.  Ja’far’s curved cock presses against his ass, and Sinbad lifts his hips in an effort to part his cheeks and let it inside and finally get what he wants.  

Ja’far seems to have a different idea, lubing his cock further before grabbing globes of tanned flesh and pushing them together, forcing himself between them with effort and sliding gently back and forth between them with a prolonged exhale.  This continues for what feels like hours to Sinbad, but is probably only a few minutes, at best.  Hands trail from his ass to his thighs, back up to pull and pinch at soft flesh, and then over his hips and up his sides, tracing scars and lines of muscle and the slight but softer curves of fat.  Sinbad, and Ja’far along with him, has lived a strange and varied life and it shows on his body, but it’s beyond his caring at this particular moment.  

Ja’far’s weight shifts back again and his cock slides out from between the globes of Sinbad’s ass, and he thinks the pleasurable torture might finally be over.  

As Ja’far often does, he proves Sinbad wrong.  

“Hips up,” he commands quietly, with the clear expectation of obedience.  Sinbad complies, as he nearly always does, rocking to his knees, chest still pressed to the mattress, ass in the air.  

Three narrow fingers slide into his asshole without warning, and then a barely perceptible fourth.  Sinbad imagines what it might be like to have Ja’far’s whole hand inside him, flexing and extending; to look down at his own belly, place a hand there, and feel it move within him.  

The thought sends a shudder up his spine with how much he wants, but he’ll reserve it for next time, when he doesn’t have a tedious meeting all of the following morning and can instead lie in bed and complain about the pain loudly enough that Ja’far gives in and babies him for a few hours.  

Sinbad is rocking his hips consistently now.  Ja’far is pressing into him just where he needs it, but he’s not moving in and out, and Sinbad is intent on getting that sensation.  He’d reach down and touch his own cock if he could, but his hands are still tied, so he tries to move back and forth in order to get Ja’far’s fingers to rub in and out of his sphincter even as they curl against his prostate.  Soft, choking noises escape Sinbad every time he achieves the desired movements, and even Ja’far is quivering slightly wherever he is connected to Sinbad.  

A flurry of movement and a lighting-fast flick of a knife see Sinbad relieved of his bindings, and the mighty King of the Seven Seas is flipped on his back, hands reflexively above his head in submission before he can even realize what is happening.  

Ja’far’s mouth is upon his swollen cock in an instant, and hands fly to snowy hair as soon as Sinbad is no longer disoriented by the shift in position.  

Thin lips work around him, tongue pressed flat to the base, as Sinbad slides with well-practiced ease down a tight, wet, clenching throat.  Sinbad removes his hands from Ja’far’s head and instead claws at the sheets, not wanting to hurt the man, no matter if he knows Ja’far can take it.  

He glances down and is met with dark, heated eyes as Ja’far takes the last few inches of him and his lips meet the dark hairs on Sinbad’s groin.  Though he can see Ja’far’s nostrils flaring, there is little other sign of the effort this must take, and as Ja’far hums low and deep in his chest at the complete penetration, Sinbad feels the vibrations travel throughout his body.  His tongue shifts against Sinbad’s shaft, but no other movement is necessary as he swallows rhythmically around the cock in his throat.  Sinbad desperately wishes he has more stamina to enjoy this, but when all he feels is good and all he can focus on is the sight of Ja’far’s bobbing throat, the slight bulge created by his cock, Sinbad gives one thoughtless thrust against Ja’far’s face, head flying back into the pillows and teeth gritting in a vain attempt to stop a scream from leaving him before he is lost.  His abdominals are clenching, his hips shaking, he can actually feel his stretched but empty anus contracting as each pull of cum shoots from his cock and into Ja’far’s mouth.  

Ja’far’s lips and tongue continue to massage Sinbad through his orgasm, even when the arch of his spine collapses as he falls to the bed and pants up to the ceiling.  Just as it becomes too much, the mouth is withdrawn and Ja’far sits back, gasping for air.  

He crumples against Sinbad’s torso eventually, cock hard against his hip but apparently not his chief concern, as those same insistent hands, hurriedly wiped clean on a bedsheet, slide against the edge of a sharp jaw, down his neck and across his shoulders.  They massage against tight connections of pectoral muscle with clavicle, over slightly ticklish ribs, all the areas Ja’far had not been able to reach with Sinbad on his belly.  

A tongue lathes across a nipple as thumbs rub tenderly over Sinbad’s sternum.  “Ja’far,” he voices hazily.  “You can take what you need, you know; I can feel you practically boring a hole through my hip with your cock.”  

Ja’far nuzzles affectionately into Sinbad’s chest and laughs a bit as slightly unsteady hands brush wispy, white hair from his face.  He presses into the caress and stills for a moment.  “Sin,” he breathes, “you know I just like watching you feel good.  Rest for a moment.  We’ve got ages to get my cock inside you, and I want it to feel good when we do.”  

Sinbad’s cock gives a half-hearted twitch at that, prompting him to grin ruefully and Ja’far to giggle as he scrapes teeth lightly at Sinbad’s chest.  Sinbad can’t help but give a fond smile as Ja’far’s hands continue to stroke along his neck and shoulders, but his teeth never stray higher than what will be hidden by his shirt.  His mind is always on Sindria and its reputation, whether Ja’far knows it or not.  

Minutes pass; idle conversation about morning wake-up calls, Pisti’s newest boyfriend, and arrangements for tomorrow’s meeting are exchanged as Sinbad stops shaking and the obvious tension fades from Ja’far’s body before scarred hands start moving downwards again.  Sinbad sighs as fingers meet his pelvis once more, thumbs rubbing across protruding bones and tracing the “v” down to his crotch.  He’d questioned Ja’far once, about his hands always straying to the hips, suspecting him of simply wanting to squeeze the extra flesh accumulated there.  

While Ja’far did admit to enjoying nuzzling into the soft skin of his belly, he also had a great knowledge of kinesiology, and explained to Sinbad that all power came from the hips.  To run, to swing a sword, to lift a dead weight, to dance at a festival, to perform acrobatics and throw his knives through the air, all energy and momentum and life originated in the hips.  

Sinbad didn’t question Ja’far and his odd respect for life anymore, he understood a bit how a man who had ended so much would appreciate it that much more, and simply lay back and enjoyed.  

Despite what Ja’far calls “vain concerns about his age,” Sinbad’s cock quickly twitches back to life as he watches Ja’far work, feels him worship his body as the masterpiece of nature he knows Ja’far considers it.   His legs are pulled apart and Ja’far plants his knees between them, lifting Sinbad’s pelvis slightly so that he can rest thick thighs upon leaner ones.  

Sinbad groans as fingers once again penetrate him, checking to make sure he is prepared enough to take Ja’far comfortably.  They retract briefly before coming back with more lube, apparently unsatisfied.  Sinbad clenches slightly and his cock jerks with every stroke of fingers inside him, and he finds himself suddenly supremely unsatisfied, despite his previous orgasm.  

“For fuck’s sake, Ja’far,” he finally gasps out.  “Just give it to me.  I need it.   _ We _ need it.”  

Sinbad barely has time to feel Ja’far’s head press against his hole, to feel that delightful ridge catch on his internal muscles, before the whole thing is abruptly inside him and he is crying out in a combination of pleasure and  _ relief _ .  Ja’far stretches him in all the places his fingers did and didn’t reach, and Sinbad swears, as he does every time, that nothing has ever felt this perfect and whole.  

It isn’t long before Sinbad understands why Ja’far had taken such care in preparing him.  Short nails dig into his thighs as they are grabbed and hoisted towards his head, and Sinbad’s body is hauled down the bed and farther into Ja’far’s lap.  When Ja’far sits up, Sinbad lets out a surprised gurgle as the cock inside him presses in even deeper.    
Ja’far cranes over Sinbad, and he is greeted with the most beautiful view of his lover he ever gets.  Lit only by dim lamplight and the moon streaming into the window, Ja’far’s eyes are dark and intensely reflective, his hair aflame.  Thighs flex with every rapid thrust, abdominals tensing and relaxing, torso undulating.  The smattering of freckles across his chest and shoulders ripple with movement and involuntary muscle twitches, and his face is the picture of concentration, in a way it only is during calculated murder or fits of great passion.  

Sinbad’s admiration is interrupted as he is pulled up into a seated position in Ja’far’s lap, a position in which he can most acutely feel the weight and size of Ja’far’s intrusion into his body.  His intestines cramp in protest even as the rest of his body sings in satisfaction.  Ja’far keeps their hips pressed together, thrusting repeatedly into Sinbad as deeply as he can reach, with no chance for even an inch of breathing room.  

Tan hands drop to pale ones on his hips, even as Sinbad’s head lolls back uselessly and some sort of low-pitched wail that might be an attempt at Ja’far’s name leaves his lips in drawn-out notes.  It has been a long time since Ja’far was in him this far, and at the hazy thought Sinbad’s hands fly up to his back and his belly, pressing to see if he can feel the cock moving inside of him from the outside.   _ He can _ , and both he and Ja’far let out synchronized groans as the pressure inside of him increases.  

Ja’far shoves him back onto the mattress, cock nearly sliding all the way out before his ass is dragged back to the edge of the bed, Ja’far’s feet planted on the floor, Sinbad’s legs wrapped around his waist.  

With this position, Ja’far devotes every muscle in his body to pounding into Sinbad, periodically having to grab him and drag him back towards the edge of the bed as violent movements push him towards the headboard.  Sinbad can barely process a thought as he is so rapidly emptied and filled again and again.  His thighs are dripping sweat where they grip Ja’far’s waist, his belly displays pronounced rolls where it is forced into a violent curve by Ja’far’s hands, his face is flushed, his hair mussed, and his ass is making some truly unseemly noises every time Ja’far moves.  Sinbad tries to laugh at just how much he  _ doesn’t care _ , but thinks it might come out more as a scream, and he stares into Ja’far’s eyes with a sort of mad glee.  

Ja’far’s returning grin has more than a bit of sharp teeth, and hands shift from his ass to his neck, squeezing as Ja’far continues to pound into him.  Sinbad throws his head from side to side, a world made hazy with pleasure growing hazier with oxygen deprivation.  Ja’far’s hands are tight, but not tight enough to bruise, and Sinbad’s arms and legs are free to kick and fight if he wishes.  Even the times when they aren’t, he loves this, trusts Ja’far with his life every day and trusts him blindly with it here too.  They have safe-words that haven’t been used in months, and Sinbad couldn’t remember them now if his life depended upon it.  

Sinbad gives a few weak thrusts against Ja’far and he is gone, vision flashing white and black and red, feeling involuntary muscles tighten and release against the cock inside him.  His legs spasm where they are latched onto his lover, and his body convulses as it somehow ekes out an orgasm even stronger than his last.  

He feels like he has been coming forever when Ja’far’s hands tighten almost imperceptibly about his neck.  Sinbad’s body is screaming for an end to the tension, for relief and for air, and just as he is about to start struggling seriously against Ja’far’s hold, he feels Ja’far’s back bow and he gives one final thrust in as deep as he can go, releasing inside with a muffled shout.  It stings within him, and Ja’far’s hands fly open, relinquishing their grip.  

Sinbad coughs and gasps for air, body falling limp against the mattress as he basks in the warmth of satiated exhaustion and oxygen in his blood, heart beating rapidly in his chest.  

Ja’far’s cock slides out of him as the man collapses to the floor below him with a thud, knees meeting cold, stone tile.  Small hands wrap around his knee where it is flopped uselessly over the edge of the bed, and Ja’far nuzzles his face into one sticky thigh, wrapping his body oddly around Sinbad’s left leg, seeking some sort of connection.  

After a while, Sinbad feels a cheek peel from his leg, and flicks his eyes down to find Ja’far still curled awkwardly, but his chin propped on the edge of the mattress, a small smile on his lips and dark eyes soft, no matter the signs of exertion still on his face and in his sweaty hair.  

“God, I fucking love you, Sin.” 

Sinbad grins and flops his head back, emitting a noise he will not admit to as giggling, and making grabby hand gestures in Ja’far’s direction.  

Ja’far sighs dramatically (only mostly for effect), and groans as he picks himself up off the floor and pulls himself onto Sinbad’s bed, crawling up to lay on his broad chest.  Sinbad shifts them so they’re both on their sides, torsos pressed together and faces a bare inch apart.  

“If you love me so much, why don’t you sleep in the wet spot?”  

Ja’far tries to bite his nose, but misses, teeth landing awkwardly on a dark cheek instead.  “I am.  This whole bed is a wet spot.”  Ja’far wriggles for emphasis and Sinbad halts his movement by wrapping his arms tighter around a slight torso and mashing him into his chest.  “Mmpf!  Go to sleep, Sin.  Didn’t I tire you out yet?”

“You’ll be mad when you wake in a few hours and everything is sticky.”

“I’ll deal with that when I wake up.”  

Sinbad tangles his legs with Ja’far’s and nuzzles into pale hair happily.  “I love you, Ja’far,” he mumbles drowsily.  

“‘Course you do,” is the sleepy reply, a smile pressed into his shoulder.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean for my first try, I think I did alright.


End file.
